


Too Close, Yet Too Far

by catbythefirelight



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Alternate Universe - Theatre, Angst, BAMF Charles, BAMF Moira, Blackmail, Charles You Will Be Drunk, Complicated Relationships, Consensual Infidelity, Drama, Erik is not a Happy Bunny, Female Friendship, Flashbacks, Getting Back Together, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Multi, Mutant Rights, Politics, Possessive Behavior, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Secret Relationships, Telepathy, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-07-17 23:14:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7289938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catbythefirelight/pseuds/catbythefirelight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven years ago, Charles and Moira, prominent political figures, married to represent the newfound peace between mutants and humans, even though both their hearts lay with others. Seven years ago, Erik left Enigma, the mutant theatre which he and Charles had set up together, for the deceased Sebastian Shaw's Mutant Crime Investigation Service. Seven years ago, Charles fell victim to a mutant hate crime which put a permanent limp in his leg, forcing him to retire from his job as an actor-Enhancer in the theatre to a more behind-the-scenes role. Seven years ago... Charles swore he would never see Erik again. </p><p>And now? Charles has picked up the pieces of his life, but Erik is back again, with a mission, and a favour to ask of Charles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> What can I say? I've wanted to write something based in a theatre since forever, and this was the perfect opportunity. Though I'm not so familiar with the workings of a theatre beyond knowledge gleaned from Youtube or Wikipedia, so forgive me if I get things wrong eventually. Also, any poetry thrown in this work unless otherwise stated has been written by myself. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope to post chapters with regularity over the next six months, fingers crossed, so I hope anyone reading this enjoys it!

_I'm not here looking for absolution_  
_Because I've found myself an old solution_  
_This is his body, this is his love_  
_Such selfish prayers, and I can’t get enough_  
\- Bedroom Hymns, Florence + the Machine

* * *

 ** Prologue ** 

On the stage, Raven's voice rises into a high crescendo. Her hands are set palms-up in front of her, her scaled form hugged by a glittery, long dark blue dress which catches the light as she moves.

In the secluded booth behind the audience, Charles closes his eyes, the consciousness of the crowd before him fluttering with awe, sparking bright, indistinct flashes of light at the edges of his awareness. In the wings above the stage, Charles senses Hank, who is held rapt, Raven's song setting off a dreamy echo in his head. Ororo perches next to Hank, eyes fixed downwards, brimming with an alert tension. 

Charles closes his eyes, brings two forefingers to his right temple, keeping his breaths shallow and utterly quiet. He spreads his power over the audience like a heavy blanket, settling deep into the recesses of their minds. His heart thuds with the pulse of so many, all their inner voices meshing together into a thready white noise at the back of his mind. 

He does not need to draw their attention to the subtle highs and lows of Raven's cadence. Raven does that well enough on her own. Instead, he coaxes out a sense of unease, an illusion that curls around their senses: a sense of something shapeless and dark lurking at the edge of their vision, but darting away whenever they look towards it. A ghostly presence, looming: it sees you, but you don't see it. 

He sends Ororo a mental nudge. _Now._

Ororo moves, curls her fingers in a fist, and a slow rumble of thunder echoes through the theatre, cutting off Raven's song abruptly. Lightning spikes. Raven gasps and falls to her knees, her dress dissolving to reveal blue scales shifting on her skin and peeling back, giving away to muscle and bone. Charles breathes in, and beads of blood fall from Raven’s flesh and start to pool on the stage floor. Raven stares down at herself in horror and starts singing again, this time in a rasping, halting voice that eventually dies away as she collapses into an unmoving heap.

The gasps of the crowd shudder through the theatre, sudden intakes of breath that sound like the sea pulling back, rearing up to bat at the shore. Charles feels their uneasy terror, their conscious knowledge that the blood isn’t real warring with what they’re seeing.

Charles opens his eyes, brushing Raven’s mind long enough to transmit his pride at her act to her before pulling away. The deep red drape curtains start to draw together to hide the stage from the audience, and the unsettled murmuring in the crowd rises in volume before they start a hearty applause.

There’s a rustling sound beside him, and Erik moves closer, touching a finger to Charles' wrist.  _Beautiful_ , he projects to Charles, his mental voice tinged warmly with awe and affection. 

He doesn't mean just Raven’s artful performance, Charles can tell. An image from Erik's mind swims up between their mental link: Charles, standing beside him, his gaze turned upward, the blue in his eyes illuminated by the bright shine of the lights in the booth, the pale contours of his face drawn into sharp, smooth angles. The mournful ending music of the orchestra wrapping around him like an old friend, making him look utterly at home. Charles lets the corners of his lips turn up into a smile, tucking his hand into Erik's and leaning his head on Erik's shoulder. They have a few moments to themselves before the break ends and the play starts again.

Here, in the booth, they’re alone, with the door locked shut from the prying eyes of the lighting and sound team. The glass window separating Charles from the audience is tinted carefully so only his silhouette can be seen, though only if one were to look carefully.

No one is there to watch them, so, on impulse, Charles turns his body into Erik's, reaching his hands up into Erik's hair to pull him down. When Charles kisses him, slow and sweet, and when Erik wraps his arms around Charles to tug him closer, no one is there to judge them. 

* * *

Hours later, when the play is over, the theatre is deathly quiet with the conspicuous lack of an audience or of the hustle and bustle of the crew backstage. The stage is dimly lit, and the rest of the house completely dark. Alone, Charles stares up from his seat in the audience, looking to that spot where Raven’s false blood had fallen so heavily.

Let's play the world in reverse, he thinks, his heart heavy. Let's go back to that moment. Let’s rewind the clock, tick tock.

Tick tock.

* * *

My heart, my dear heart,  
I don't want to ever let you go  
But you are leaving,  
Pulling,  
Tearing away from me,  
The places where we were once  
Bonded together like glue  
Falling to shreds.  
And I have never ever  
Felt so alone  
In my own body, in my mind,  
In my soul, gaping open;  
Frayed ends of a rope  
Drifting with nowhere  
To go. 

Come back.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the first chapter, finally! I'm working on this as I go along. Feel free to let me know if you spot any errors, or comment if something is confusing. I have a number of subplots planned to go along with this work, though, so ultimately everything will be cleared up in time :) 
> 
> Please comment and let me know what you thought of this chapter!

_Nothing ever feels quite the same when you are what you dreamed  
__And you will never look at anything the same when you see what I see;  
__How we forget ourselves, lose our way from the cradle to the grave  
__You can’t replicate or duplicate, gotta find your own way._  
\- Shinedown, How Did You Love

* * *

  **Chapter 1**

7 YEARS LATER 

It’s so cold, Charles’s breaths cloud the air in front of his mouth. His cane crunches on the snow. With a hand, Charles pulls the collar of his coat tighter around his neck, huddling into it in an attempt to ward off the cold, tugging the sleeves down over his fingers, which are frozen stiff even through his gloves. It’s freezing, today of all days in particular – he’d have snatched up his scarf on the way out of the house, but he’d forgotten it, in his rush. He’s late enough.

He tries to walk at a faster pace, thinking it might warm him up a bit, and get him to the theatre faster. But his knee twinges awkwardly – the ache in the joint spiking into a low throb as it always does in cold weather – and he is forced to slow down again, leaning on his cane a bit more heavily. The numerous people he passes on the sidewalk – a steady thrum of white noise, images and emotions leaking through every once in a while in faint wisps, anxiety and frustration building under their skin – don’t meet his eyes. 

By the time he arrives at the theatre, his teeth are nearly chattering and his eyes are stinging. He wastes no time stopping to look more than cursorily over the all-too-familiar building, at the grand blackwood doors and the carefully-etched declaration of  _ENIGMA'S THEATRE_. He pushes the door open and shuts it behind him, the motion followed by an ominously loud _bang_. The inside is gloriously warm, and he lets out a shuddering sigh of relief, shrugging off his coat and tucking it over his arm. 

The foyer is silent and empty. Charles' footsteps echo on the marble floor; his cane makes even clicking sounds.  The staff entrance to the theatre is held open with an umbrella stand, with the murmuring voices of the crew behind it distantly audible. As Charles makes his way through the doorway, the sounds of his crew at work become steadily louder, and a veritable hive of activity buzzes on before him: a couple of the interns from the University hurry past him, tremulous stacks of papers cradled in their arms, seemingly on the way to the stage. Some of the stuntmen make their way past him in the corridor, supporting a long ladder across their shoulders and nodding in acknowledgement to Charles. He can hear the tapping of dancing feet from the rehearsal room, with the dance instructor counting out a rhythmic beat. Angel hurries out of her dressing room, followed by Alex, and when they look up, they spot Charles.

“Professor!” Angel exclaims, smiling, and makes her way to him. “We were just looking for you!”

"There's a meeting about to start, Hank said they're waiting for you," Alex adds. He pushes a bundle of papers into Charles's hands. As Charles looks at him inquiringly, Alex explains, "These are the authorization papers for Scott to watch the next show from backstage. And the papers for the use of telepathy. I've signed them, they just need your signature now. And Jean’s, of course." 

 "Tell little Scott to bring his camera when he comes," Angel interjects. "It'll be fun for him to try and snap photos of everything rather than just sitting around, if he gets bored." 

Charles nods, shuffling the papers into some semblance of order and folding them before tucking it into one of the inside pockets of his coat. It's a surprisingly thick load of documents, thicker than the authorization papers required for every adult in the audience to sign, but then again the government has even more laws on the use of telepathy on a minor. "Very well, Alex, I'll sign it and send it in for processing as soon as I can. Tell your brother I said hello. Now, so I'll see both of you later, shall I?" 

"Sure thing, Prof," Angel says, and Alex nods. Charles smiles and turns to his left, walking away from them, deeper into the corridor, in the direction of the meeting room. 

There's a slight murmuring from it which comes to a sudden halt when Charles appears in the doorway. The occupants of the room, clustered around some papers in the centre of the conference table, all look up at him as he enters the room. "Charles, you're here, that's great," Hank says, sounding oddly relieved, standing up to shuffle his chair aside and make more space for Charles. There's a nervous sort of tension to his movements, his fingers twitching as if with a need for something to do. 

Charles raises his eyebrows. Hank has a rather placid nature, cultivated over the years of his medical training; he’s kept his calm through years of chaotic accidents in the theatre, as the attending physician here. Charles imagines that whatever's driving Hank to this much anxiety, it can't be good. 

"I apologize for being late," Charles says. "Raven came down with a cold this morning; she won’t be coming in today." He feels Hank's mind spike with concern at that news, and he assures Hank,  _She's alright, Moira's looking after her for now_. He takes his seat at the head of the table, absently placing his cane against the table to lean against it, and shifts forward to get a closer look at the papers that seem to have everyone so agitated. Armando silently gathers the papers together and slides them across to him. Charles catches the papers before they can fall off the polished surface of the desk, and peers at them.

When he realizes what they are, shuffling through the papers, he can feel the muscles in his face slacken in surprise. He puts the papers back on the table and looks up. The others look back at him, their postures drawn tight with tension. “This is a  _request_ ,” he drags the last word out slowly, “for an inspection from the MCIS. When did this come in?

“Just this morning,” Hank says. “I found it in the P.O. box. It wasn’t in there last night.”

 “They didn’t even have the courtesy to deliver the papers themselves, huh?” Armando says, crossing his arms over his chest. 

"We can’t stand for this,” Ororo says. “We all follow the protocols they imposed. Charles and Jean already have tons of paperwork to process for every drama we play. What do they even  _want_? What do they expect to find here?”

 “I don’t know,” Charles says, wearily, leaning his elbows on the armrests of his chair. “We already had an inspection from them last year. After our pro-integrationist play, you’ll remember that one, Ororo.”

Ororo nods reluctantly. Perhaps it had been unwise of Charles to hold that play at _Enigma_ at that particular time, maybe he should have waited for a more peaceful period, but it would have happened sooner or later, anyway. It was not just the public that paid attention to the dramas they hosted, and many of them had certain political themes. Charles would argue, though, that some political impact was, after all, necessary for change. Everyone from the government to the Mutant Crime Investigation Service may preach about mutant-human tolerance, but he knew that the truth was more complicated.  

It’s not as if the MCIS – an organization composed mostly of mutants who were former separationists – could stop them from producing certain plays. But it could… restrict them. Monitor them. Which made Charles seethe, having to bow down to every demand they imposed upon them. But he had everything to lose by refusing what they wanted.

“So much for the tolerance every mutant owes another,” says Jean. “It’s all lies, the propaganda they spew. Aren’t we supposed to be on the same side?”

“There aren’t sides anymore,” Hank reminds her, his voice firm. They fall into silence, briefly, for a lack of anything to say.

The ringing of Charles’s phone interrupts the grim silence. Charles sighs, pulls it out and glances at the screen to the name blinking there – Moira. His mind immediately flashes to a picture of Raven bent over the bed that morning, coughing, her goodbye a hoarse rasp.

“Excuse me, I need to take this,” he says, and ducks out of the room to the nods of those around him. Once he’s out of the meeting room, he presses the phone to his ear.

“Hi. Is Raven okay?” he asks, without preamble.

“Raven is fine,” Moira answers, her voice laced tight with tension. “I got her to take some paracetamol and cough syrup. She’s sleeping right now. But I’ve got some news, and you’re not going to like it.”

Charles sighs. “What, is the ball tonight cancelled?”

The New Year’s Eve Ball, a grand event held at the Frost mansion not far from Westchester, was hosted by Emma each year. It was the perfect reason, Emma would say, smiling, for both mutant and human professionals to relax and let down their hair, and forget their worries for just one night – but no matter what she said about how casual the event was, everyone she invited knew perfectly well that they were in no position to decline a personal invite from the Director of the MCIS herself.

“It’s still on,” Moira says. “But Emma just called. She was terribly apologetic, but due to a last-minute change, your speech tonight is getting cut short.”

“What?! We’ve been looking forward to this presentation for months, Moira. Why–“

“I have no idea,” Moira interrupts him, sounding as annoyed as he feels. “Emma said… Ah, she said that Erik just came back from an assignment in Russia, and the Minister would rather hear him speak instead. Because Erik had a ‘better practical perspective on current mutant affairs to offer’, I believe, and they wanted to hear him too.”

Charles barely heard that last bit. Erik. Of course Erik was back, now of all the possible times. He feels almost queasy to think of it. The last time Charles had seen him was ages ago, across the room of some charity ball for a mutant orphanage. He had looked as much the same as Charles remembered him from when they’d worked together, achingly so – with the exception of his eyes, which had seemed sharper and darker, somehow, and with a thin layer of unshaved stubble stretching across his jaw, giving him a rugged look. They hadn’t spoken so much as one word to each other, and when their eyes just happened to meet each other’s, Erik had just looked at him blankly, as if Charles were a stranger.

Needless to say, it had hurt.

“Well then,” Charles says, pulling himself together. “I suppose we’ll have to improvise. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Yes, it’s not,” Moira says. “All the same, we should go over your speech one more time this evening to modify it. Meet me back at the apartment by three, will you?"

"Will do. Moira, I've got news of my own. We just had papers from the MCIS arriving at the office this morning. They’re requesting for an inspection." He didn’t bother explaining. Moira knew perfectly well what that meant; she’d been in this with him for years now.

There's silence down the line for a moment, before Moira speaks. "And how do you intend to deal with this?"

"There's nothing we can do but agree to it," Charles says, "They'll suspect something if we don't. But we're not going to make it easy for them." 

"No," Moira says. "We should be prepared. Is there anything suspicious in the office?"

"As far as I can recall, no, but I'll check again later. I’ll see you later, Moira.”

“See you.” The line dies with a final _beep_ as Moira hangs up. Charles lowers the phone from his ear, considering.

 _Enigma_ was going to have quite the busy new year, if today was any judge. 

* * *

Sometime later, Charles is with Jean and the orchestra players, watching the players rehearse for their next drama. When they finish their first round, Sean steps up to the front of the orchestra pit and claps his hands, once, twice, thrice. “Here we go!” he calls. “Four, five, six, guys, let’s go again. We can do better than that.”

Charles raises his hand and moves forward. “Wait,” he calls up. The orchestra players, having raised their instruments and set themselves into position at Sean’s direction, relax again and look at him obligingly. “There was something missing in that performance. Can anyone guess what it is?”

There’s a quiet moment before Warren Worthington, one of the violinists, clears his throat. “We stumbled over a few notes?” he ventures. “I think I got too enthusiastic with my bowstring at some point.”

“Don’t we all?” says Wanda, the double bass player, drily, and the other players chuckle.

Charles grins. “Well, yes, but that’s not quite what I was looking for. We’re lacking some of our usual spirit.” He stops for a while to let that sink in, setting both hands on top of his cane before him. “Some of you are new to playing here, I know, and the rest of you have heard this over and over again from me over the years – but I’ll repeat it. The orchestra is not here to merely support the play; in fact, it forms an essential part of it. You are not in the side lines. The spotlight may be on our actors, but your music guides the actors and sets the scene; it makes an impression on the audience and helps Jean and I with our illusions. _Your_ spirit and drive to play is an integral part of each and every one of our dramas.”

The players’ attention sharpens as he speaks, some nodding along with his words, some frowning, others with their eyes bright and enthused. When he finishes talking, he steps back and nods to Sean, who claps his hands in ringing beats. “So, let’s see some more passion this time! One, two, three…” 

As Charles leans back, and the rehearsal starts again, Jean steps up beside him. Her mind touches his in greeting. “Hey,” she says quietly.

He turns to her and smiles. “Hi,” he returns. He sends her a brief image of the stack of paperwork waiting for him in his office – steadily climbing by the hour, and most certainly not composed of just the permission papers for Scott’s attendance in their next drama – and a slightly exaggerated impression of his reluctance.

Jean giggles. “I could help you with that, if you like,” she offers.

“Oh, no, that’s all right. I know you’ve got your own impressive set of paperwork to complete. Thanks, though.” He tucks a hand into his pocket, leaving the other on his cane.

There’s a pause, and then –“I heard about your speech getting cut short tonight.”

“Yes, that.” Charles sighs, frowning. “I’m meeting up with Moira soon to discuss the improvisations we’ll need to make.”

“Good luck with that. Though Moira’s excellent with adapting to these things, so I’m sure your speech will go off without a hitch despite the inconvenience.”

Charles tilts his head in agreement. “Yes, I’m lucky to have her working with me,” he says, suddenly uncomfortable in Jean’s presence. Why exactly, he doesn’t know, but he suddenly itches with an urge to get back to his office, and it makes him feel even more wary to think of why he’d want to get away. He manages a smile. “I’ll see you around, Jean. Watch the rehearsals for me, would you?”

“Sure. See you around.”

As he walks away, he can feel her gaze boring into his back. Reflexively, he wounds the shields layered across his mind more tightly. 

* * *

Charles shrugs his dress shirt on, pulling it around his torso and buttoning it up tightly. The material is slick and cool on his skin, and he shivers slightly as the shirt moulds itself around him, warming to his body temperature. He unfolds the shirt’s collar, then reaches for his tie and winds it around his neck.

His bedroom door creaks open quietly and Charles flicks his eyes up to the mirror to see Moira slip in, already clad in her gown. She takes in his appearance and walks closer, stepping in front of him. Her nimble fingers take the ends of the tie to fold it up neatly into a Windsor.

“All these years, and you’re still better at this than I am,” Charles teases, standing still and relaxing. It’s easy to settle back, hearing nothing but his and Moira’s slow breaths in the tranquility of his bedroom, and with her touch familiar and gentle when her fingers brush occasionally against the thin fabric of his shirt. He watches her through a half-lidded gaze.

 “Someone has to be,” she retorts, quirking her lips up in a grin.

“Have you practised this on Sean?” he dares ask her. He imagines them, in Sean’s dressing room back at the theatre, Sean standing still for Moira in front of a mirror for her, her fingers lingering on his tie, the quiet ache of the space between them.

Moira gives him a wry look. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” She leans back slightly, assessing him, smoothening down his collar. Her face turns serious. “You need to ask Emma sometime why she keeps sending these inquiries into _Enigma_. If word got out to the media…”

“It would be disastrous, I know.” Pursing his lips, Charles turns away from her and moves towards one of his drawers, taking out a pair of cufflinks and fastening them onto the ends of his sleeves. “Have you considered that maybe Emma’s not the one behind this?”

“You think Emma doesn’t know everything that goes on in her own organization?” Moira’s voice is incredulous.

“Of course she does,” Charles returns, his voice wry. “But we both know that while she has to approve every decision that’s made in that place, those decisions are made by a Board of Members and she has to be careful about which decisions she rejects.”

Moira hums, absently fingering the zip of her purse. “I see that,” she says. “But you have to admit she’s got some sort of hand in this. She’s in a position to change these things, yet she’s not doing a thing. There has to be a reason, I know there has to be.”

Charles nods. “You don’t want to ask her about this yourself?” He would have thought that was what Moira would’ve preferred. They did meet at a little tea shop every second Saturday evening of the month, after all. Charles always avoided asking exactly what they discussed during their meetings; he’d rather not know, and Moira would tell him if it concerned him.

Moira gives him a pointed look. “We prefer to keep our friendship separate from politics – unlike some people I know,” she adds, raising a delicate eyebrow at him.

He quirks his lips in a smirk, but otherwise ignores the barb, reaching into the closet to pull out his suit jacket and tug it on. “Very well. I’ll arrange a meeting with her in a few days.”

Moira nods, satisfied. She opens up her purse and examines it once again, pulling out her phone and checking for calls. “These inquiries pose a danger, to you, to me and to _Enigma_ most of all. We’ve got people to protect.”

Charles cracks open the bedroom door. “Ready?”

“I was ready ten minutes ago, you slowpoke.” Moira rolls her eyes and slips past him into the corridor. Charles grins and follows her. 

* * *

 Staring up, Charles sees the grand crystal chandeliers, set in white gold and in a tight curling design, affixed to the high ceiling of the ballroom. He studies them carefully – they’re magnificent, naturally, and also brand new, substantially bigger than the ones that were on the ceiling just last year. Emma would never hesitate to take the opportunity to show off Frost wealth.

Breathing out steadily, he reaches out to take a glass of champagne from the nearest waiter. He takes a slow slip, casting his eyes about the room as he does so.

Charles registers the continuous noise of people engaged in conversation, and the low hum of their surface thoughts along with it. The New Year’s Ball is not only a grander occasion than usual this year, but Charles notes that there are also more notable people here. He glances briefly from face to face, recognizing quite a few.

Across the room, Charles spots President Stryker rubbing shoulders with some of the higher-ups in the Mutant Affairs Department, the wide smile on his lips as fake as any painted grin. Near the entrance to the ballroom, Emma is standing with some journalists and photographers, including Kitty Pryde, pausing in her speech to take small sips from her glass of wine. Kitty nods along to Emma’s words, scribbling on a little pad in her hand.

He sees no sign of Erik. At least, not yet. For that, he’s not sure whether to be relieved or worried.

A slender hand touches his elbow. Without startling, Charles takes another sip from his glass and turns, smiling. “Moira, darling,” he says, “I was just wondering where you’d gone off to.”

Moira smiles back at him, her lips red and glossy in the shine of the bright lights in the ballroom. She’s resplendent in her form-fitting black dress, her hair styled into elegant wavy curls that frame her face gently.

Charles can feel hungry eyes from all over the room on them both, and doesn’t let his expression falter. He hears the sound of camera shutters clicking frantically as he moves his hand to the small of Moira’s back.

She raises her eyebrows at him.  _Emma will be jealous that we’re getting all the spotlight_ , she projects to him, her mental voice tinged with humour. Out loud, she says, “Oh, I was just speaking to the Russian ambassador. Did you know, there were recent refurbishes made to the National Mutant History Museum in Russia?”

As Moira speaks, she lifts her left hand to tuck an awry lock of hair behind her ear. Her wedding ring, the diamond ring Charles had slid onto her slender finger on the day of their wedding, catches the light as she does so, and Charles’s eyes linger on it. He's not the only one. He hears another click of a camera shutter.

“Perhaps on our next visit to Russia, we could visit this Museum,” Charles says, quirking his lips up in a smile. “I’m sure their renovations are wondrous.”

The chatter in the ballroom starts to quieten as Emma makes her way up the stairs to the stage at the front of the room, people peering around each other and starting to move closer, in the direction of the round tables set in rows at the front of the room.

“Let’s go,” he murmurs, and Moira takes the arm he offers to her. They move across the room. Charles raises his eyes and sees Jean and Hank already sitting at one of the tables, gesturing at him. He and Moira move closer and sit at the table.

“It’s a beautiful night, is it not?” Charles says. 

“It is indeed,” Jean nods.

There’s an awkward pause, and then Hank tells Jean, “Thanks for inviting me.”

“It was a pleasure, Hank, you’re good company.” Jean smiles.

Kitty Pryde stops by their table, tucking a ballpoint pen and her signature notebook into a pocket in her trousers. “Mind if I sit here?” she asks Moira, setting a hand on the back of a free seat.

“Oh, no, go ahead. It’s great to see you, Kitty. How is work?” Moira raises both her eyebrows.

“You know how it is. Perhaps you’ve heard of the scandal with President Stryker’s son getting booted out from the military just a couple of days ago? The office has been in an uproar over that. Sometimes I wish I worked in the entertainment section.” Kitty gasps exaggeratedly. “Oh, but I shouldn’t be saying a word about these things, should I?”

“I didn’t hear it from you,” Moira assures her, laughing.

“Where’s Raven?” Kitty asks, looking at the faces around the table.

“She’s down with a cold today, unfortunately,” Charles answers. Kitty makes a sympathetic sound.

A shushing sound spreads through the room. They look up to the stage to see Emma smiling and reaching for a microphone which a smartly-dressed assistant offers her.

“Esteemed guests, my friends and colleagues, mutants and humans alike, I thank you all for being here. It’s wonderful to see all of us gathered here tonight. Why, there are some of you whom I haven’t seen for months!” She laughs. “We’re here to honour the passing of what has been a successful year for us all, and celebrate the start of what I hope will be an even more successful year. Let’s have a toast to new beginnings!”

As Charles drinks from his glass, his gaze wanders around the room. His eyes catch on a table not far away, with familiar figures seated around it – Agents Azazel, Janos and Pietro from the MCIS, all hunkering over the table to whisper something furtive. The next moment, one of the doors at the side of the ballroom is cracked open by a waiter, and Charles sets his glass down as Erik slips into the room, looking faintly apologetic. He makes his way over to the table with the MCIS Agents. Charles sees Azazel shoot an accusing look at Erik.

His abrupt arrival prompts a short burst of mutters from the people around them. Charles drags his eyes away from Erik as Emma continues to speak, acknowledging Erik with nothing but an imperious nod. “And before we settle down to enjoy our feast, we have a few renowned mutants ready to speak before us about their work, to offer an exclusive and up-to-date perspective into their fields. First of all, let’s welcome to the stage Doctor Charles Xavier, owner of _Enigma’s_ _Theatre_ , also working as an Enhancer there alongside Jean Grey, and one of the few Consultants to the Department of Mutant Affairs and frequent guest lecturer at Westchester University. He’s accompanied tonight by his lovely wife, Doctor Moira MacTaggert, who is here as a representative of the CIA.”

As the guests start up a smattering applause, Charles smiles and stands, making his way to the stage. Emma hands him the mike, pressing a wordless impression of a clock ticking down ten minutes across his shields. He sends her his understanding of the message and steps forward.

The eyes of the audience weigh on him heavily, expectant, as he starts to speak. He feels the weight of Erik’s gaze most of all, thick and almost heady in its attentiveness, and draws his attention away from Erik, curling the wandering tails of his telepathy inwards.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am honoured to have the chance to speak to you all today…”


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, an update! Sorry for the delay (though I suppose from now on my updates will be somewhat slow since I'm starting college soon), and I hope you all enjoy this one! Happy early new year, and here's to a wonderful 2017 ;)

_I took the stars from my eyes, and then I made a map_  
_And knew that somehow I could find my way back_  
_Then I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too_  
_So I stayed in the darkness with you_ **  
** – Cosmic Love, Florence + the Machine

* * *

**Chapter 2**

Charles spins Moira one last time before she lets herself fall gracefully into his arms, letting her momentum carry her down. They hold the pose for a moment for the frantic clicking of the cameras, and then everyone else in the ballroom starts clapping enthusiastically. Charles pulls Moira up, huffing slightly; grinning and flushed, she curtseys gracefully to the room, and Charles bows, smirking. Charmed by the display, their audience titters. 

 “And now it’s your turn, ladies and gentlemen!” he calls out, and gestures extravagantly to the dance floor. He takes his cane from the attendant holding it out to him, smiling brightly at the man, transferring the cane to his other hand. “Thanks, old chap.”

 As the guests start to swarm to the floor and another song starts up, Charles and Moira move towards the refreshments. While they walk, he glances around the room for the first time since they started to dance, and he startles when he finds Erik staring at him intensely from across the ballroom. Erik’s standing as if he’s frozen in place, a point of stillness in the excited ballroom. Something in him lurches in shock, and Charles feels his cheeks flush at the unexpected attention, but otherwise doesn’t let himself react, letting his gaze move on from Erik indifferently as if he hadn’t noticed.

He senses Moira’s attention shift to him, and her sudden concern. _Will Erik be a problem?_ she projects, carefully, her mental voice having the exact same tone as when she’s speaking to temperamental diplomats. As hawk-eyed as she is, there’s no way she hadn’t noticed Erik’s direct stare.

Irritated by the delicate way she treats him, he snaps, _No, Erik is nothing at all to us._ A moment later, he regrets the too-sharp tone he took. _I_ _’_ _m sorry_.

 _It_ _’s quite all right._ Moira acknowledges and dismisses the apology easily, remaining serene. Charles hovers for a moment at the perimeter of her mind to bask in the familiar, lovely clarity emanating from it; to him, Moira’s mind is grounding, an immense relief from the chaotic, constant, dissembling minds of most other people, her nature reassuringly forthright. There were only a few people like that whom he’d ever met; Erik being one of them, of course.

Moira changes the subject as they near the refreshments, picking up a glass and sipping from it. “Any ideas on who I could ask to dance?” Her eyes rove across the room intently, her lips twitching into a grin.

Charles laughs. “What, I wasn’t enough for you?” he says, mock-offended. He follows the trail of her gaze across the room. “Hmm. Try Janos Quested,” he suggests. “He’s quiet, but he’s observant. If you get on his good side, he might tell you something useful.”

Approval laces Moira’s next words. “That’s exactly what I was thinking. I’ll see you later, Charles.” Moira sets her glass aside and moves to the side of the ballroom, where Janos is, with casual purpose in her steps. Along the way, she’s sidestepped by a couple of reporters, and she stops for a while to humour them.

Charles feels someone approach him from behind, but he doesn’t turn until they clear their throat. He smiles broadly on seeing exactly who it is.

“Agent Azazel, it’s lovely to see you here tonight. How are you?”

“Oh, I’m fine, Doctor Xavier.” Azazel shifts on his feet, and, oh, that cheeky look he’s giving Charles is as familiar and exasperating as always. “But I could be better.”

Charles shifts his grip on his cane and straightens his shoulders. How he’d missed the banter he and Azazel used to exchange, before they became such busy and different people. “Oh? How so?”

“I could be out there on the dance floor, enjoying myself like all the rest.” Azazel grins at him, his white teeth bright against the red skin of his face. “You were rather magnificent on the floor. Would you do me the honour of a dance, Xavier?”

“You flatter me.” Charles considers it, the image of them dancing together, Azazel’s red hands stark against the black of Charles’s suit. It’s certainly an intriguing picture, and why not? Charles cocks his head at Azazel. “But you must remember, I’m a married man now, Azazel.” His lips twitch.

Azazel raises his eyebrows. “And your dear wife isn’t letting that stop her from enjoying another dance, is she?” He nods towards the floor, where Moira is already being twirled around in Janos’s arms, her hair whipping about her face.

Giving up on playing coy, Charles laughs. “You have me backed into a corner. All right, then, give me a moment.” He grabs some whiskey off the table and tosses the glass back, closing his eyes and relishing the burn; he feels Azazel’s attention zero in on the arch of his neck, the gulping movement of his Adam’s apple, the hum of Azazel’s mind sharpening as if spotting a target. He puts the glass down and meets Azazel’s darkening gaze, smiling slowly.

Feeling refreshed, he hands his cane off to the nearest attendant, bracing his feet, and holds out his hand expectantly to Azazel, raising his eyebrows, breaking the thread of tension between them. Azazel laughs and takes it, his mind distinctly amused. “You know exactly what you want, don’t you?” he says, leading them to the dance floor as a new song starts.

“Haven’t I always?”

Subtly, Azazel lets Charles lean on himself, taking some of Charles’s weight when he moves to grip Charles’s waist and when they grasp each other’s hands tightly. They start to move in a modified waltz across the floor, Azazel moving them around confidently, and Charles letting the motions carry him, falling instinctively into the movements. Dancing lessons were the only lessons his mother had ever given him which he’d ever really taken to as a child; watching a dance or actually dancing, it didn’t matter, there was always something engaging about the activity which he loved, something about the way two bodies moved in synchrony which captivated him, the exchange of tension and ease between dance partners, the constant awareness of each other’s movements.

After the accident, it had taken months of gruelling physical therapy for him just to be able to move from the wheelchair to being able to walk smoothly with his cane. Charles’s memories of all that time had long since blurred together to boil down to the barest of details: the near-constant ache in his muscles and bruises on his arms from the crutches; the firm hold of his therapist on his waist after falling for the hundredth time; spending night after night pouring over paperwork with Moira and Raven just to keep _Enigma_ going; and, most of all, the deep ache in his mind so heavy whenever he ventured out of the house that at one point he’d had to resort to light suppressants for months just to be able to be able to bear the blaze of noise.

It had never occurred to him that he’d ever be able to dance again. But one night, at one of the informal parties Charles and Moira had been obliged to attend, he’d been sitting in the side lines gamely laughing with Azazel and sharing a beer with him, Azazel stunned him with what had seemed like an inane question: he’d why Charles wasn’t out on the floor, dancing like all the rest.

Charles had stared, unsure of the appropriate reaction; he’d settled for gesturing down the length of his body. “As you can clearly see, my dear friend, I’m in no condition for a dance.”

Azazel had merely raised his eyebrows and looked back at him patiently. “There are ways to learn everything now. Ways to relearn how to walk, how to run, how to manage your needs with disabilities. Why not dancing too?” And Azazel had pulled out his wallet and fingered through it while Charles stayed quiet, looking for something, before eventually making a triumphant noise and extracting a black business card from it, sliding it across the table to Charles.

As Charles had picked it up, Azazel had tucked his wallet back into his pants and pushed the chair back from the table to get up. “Consider it. I know the guy,” he’d said. “He’s good.” He had winked at Charles before teleporting away with a sharp _crack_ , leaving only the sharp tang of sulfur in the air behind him, causing the people nearby to squawk indignantly and back away, wrinkling their noses.

A week later, sitting at his desk and sorting out old documents, Charles had cracked; he’d called the man on the business card. The card had been labelled in a large and simple font with “LOGAN HOWLETT, PHYSICAL THERAPIST” on the front, and, curiously enough, lines that looked like claw marks, neatly scratched into the hard paper. A gruff, rasping voice had picked up the phone and simply demanded to know when Charles could come for his first appointment over Charles’s long-winded explanation of the purpose of his call.

Charles had gone to Logan’s therapy centre, a deceptively run-down old building with surprisingly well-equipped and brightly lit facilities inside. Logan had worked him hard over the next few months, and he’d been far more effective than the physical therapist the hospital had issued him; within three months, Charles became proficient with using his cane, a much faster walker with it, and best of all, he could dance passably.

The dance Logan had taught him was adapted, naturally; Moira had practised it with him in the beginning, having accompanied Charles to his appointments with Logan many times, and she knew it as well as any other ballroom dance, but so had Raven, Hank, Armando, and, hilariously, once, even Alex’s little brother Scott, who’s been six years old at the time.

Doing the dance with Moira herself had required many turns of practice; it was more difficult to practise leading her than it was to practise following Logan. With Logan, less effort was required on Charles’s part, as all Charles had to do was hold on, and learn to control his momentum. His dance with Moira and Raven required much more work, both on his part and theirs, him learning to use his upper body strength to his advantage in pulling his own weight, and them learning intricate steps to avoid putting too much strain on his leg. After each of Logan’s sessions, Charles had been exhausted and drained, but nonetheless, he felt himself growing stronger, and his step lighter; he revelled in the physical exertion of every dance.

With much time and training, he’d learned to be as good as any other regular dancer on the ballroom floor.

Azazel catches his eye, and Charles cracks a wide grin at him, unable to conceal his delight. Azazel laughs, and raises his eyebrows – _Ready?_ – and Charles nods slightly. Charles tightens his grip on Azazel’s shoulders as Azazel releases his hand; Azazel lifts him up by the waist, spinning him around in the air. Charles feels the cool air rush over his face and through his hair in the short moments before Azazel sets him down gently.

His gaze flickers behind Azazel’s shoulder to another couple on the dance floor; it’s Erik and Emma. Erik is leading Emma in broad motions across the floor, her blindingly white dress swinging around them as they move. They dominate the floor together, a beautiful vision of partnership, moving in synchrony.

 _That’s what we were, once_ , Charles thinks, dully. _Partners, united in almost every way possible._ And it’s hard, so hard, for him not to let his eyes linger on the points of contact between them – Erik’s hold on Emma’s waist, her fingers gripping his shoulder, their hands pressed tight together.

He feels the hot, choking clench of jealousy in his throat, and forces himself to look away from them and back at Azazel, who is watching him with an almost knowing look in his eyes. It’s all Charles can do not to react, not to pull away from the world and shut it all down.

It’s stupid. He’s had seven years to deal with this. He’d moved on long ago.

By the time song ends, Charles feels stifled by the night. The walls feel as if they’re pressing down in on him, crowding him in with the other dancers, pushing him too close to all of them. He can’t stand the idea of another few hours spent entertaining the media. He longs, suddenly, to get out of here.

 _I can’t stand this anymore_ , he thinks. He smiles perfunctorily at Azazel and makes his excuses; Azazel accepts them graciously.

“We’ll catch up some other day, won’t we,” Azazel states, grinning with his blindingly white teeth. Charles catches a stray thought from him, tinged with resignation, not meant for him to overhear but nonetheless slipping out: _this is why Charles and I couldn’t be together… how the hell did Erik deal with his mood swings…_

Stung, Charles flinches back mentally. Well, it’s not as if he hadn’t known Azazel was an ass. He smiles again, says “Of course we will,” and turns away. His collar’s too tight around his neck; all he wants is to loosen it up.

 _I_ _’m just going off for the men’_ _s_ , Charles sends to Moira, who’s across the room deep in discussion with Emma and Janos. At her mental acknowledgement, he slips away from the crowd of dancers as unobtrusively as he can and ducks towards the nearest door, quirking a smile at the attendant who opens it for him.

The corridor’s quiet, and he’s alone; he breathes a sigh of relief. He starts down the corridor at a leisurely pace, but with sure footsteps. He’s been here a hundred times, ever since he was a child, when his mother would take him along whenever she wanted to pay a visit to Mrs Frost. There was many a time when he and Emma would sneak through the corridors to get to the grand library – which had been forbidden to both of them at the time – to finger through the antique books with clumsy, eager fingers, sneaking triumphant smirks at the other. The Frost mansion has seen many renovations since then, and of course, he and Emma had grown apart when they left for different high schools **.** And when they had met again, years and years later, both he and Emma had come a long way away from their childhood selves. Still, he can’t help but feel a pang of nostalgia for those times.

He twists open the brass doorknob of the door of the loo – a little too roughly, and it squeaks in protest – and shuts the door firmly behind him. The steps of his shoes cause a slight clipping sound on the polished marble of the floor. As he walks, he loosens his tie around his neck to unfasten the first button on his dress shirt, loosening the constriction around his neck. The golden taps are a cold shock to the skin of his fingers as he twists them open, and the following _shhh_ of the steady stream of water rushing from the tap is the only thing he hears in the still quiet of the room.

Charles runs his hands through the stream of water, cupping them together and splashing his face; once, twice, thrice, and he runs a wet hand through his hair to comb back any awry strands. When he twists the tap off, he’s once again in a room of utter silence. He reaches for some tissue and dabs it over his face. Tossing the tissue into the bin, he closes his eyes and runs a hand across his jaw.

The next moment, though, his eyes snap open and his shoulders stiffen. There’s the unmistakable sense of someone moving through the corridors, striding with intent towards the washroom Charles is in – and he knows that mind, intimately. It’s Erik.

Wary, wanting to find out what Erik might want from him, he reaches out with his mind to Erik – trying to be so subtle about it that even Erik wouldn’t be able recognize the touch of Charles’s mind – but encounters a blurry, grating, furious buzz of white noise barring his way, as good as a furious message to _KEEP OUT_. 

Well, well, well.

 _Someone_ had been learning telepathic defence techniques in his spare time. But from who?

From Emma, no doubt. Bitterness surges in his throat, hot and thick. But how could he have expected anything else? He’d given up the privilege of being able to share his telepathy with Erik seven years ago.

He draws back from Erik’s mind and considers locking the door, just out of spite. But then he sighs and decides against it; it’s a petty action, and Erik would just make quick work of the lock to get in anyway. He leans against the sink and crosses his arms over his chest, pursing his lips, waiting. 

It takes a couple of minutes before the door opens, and in Erik steps, looking up to meet Charles’s eyes steadily. He looks unsurprised at Charles’s anticipatory posture, like he’d expected Charles to sense his approach. Just like he’d probably reached out for the metal on Charles’s body – the zipper of his pants, the gold in his belt, the silver of his watch – to find where exactly Charles had escaped to. Erik’s body is stiff with tension, and he walks cautiously, like he’s not sure how Charles will react to every step he takes. Charles eyes him expressionlessly.

“Charles.”

“Erik. It’s been a long time.” Charles takes the opportunity to take in Erik’s appearance now that they’re up close to each other. He looks more put together than the last time Charles had seen him – he’s clean-shaven, his hair gelled and combed to the side, the cut of his suit emphasizing the broadness of his shoulders. His eyes are bright and alert, though slightly narrowed with wariness.

He looks good. Of course he does, they’d moved on from each other long ago.

“It has,” Erik is saying. “I…” His voice falters.

They’ll be stuck here for a while, it seems, Charles thinks, suppressing a sigh. There seems to be something Erik wants to say to him – though he’s clearly reluctant to do so, goodness knows why. Just as Erik raises his chin and opens his mouth to speak again, Charles says, “So, how is Edie these days?”

Erik blinks, then stiffens, his eyes narrowing. “She’s fine.”

Charles raises his eyebrows. “Still hosting her book club every Saturday evening?”

“Yes, she still does, and she’s thinking of putting an ad around in the neighbourhood to expand it.” Erik squints at him. “Why do you want to know?”

Charles bristles. “Can’t I simply be concerned about an old friend?” he snaps, and he really is irritated by Erik’s assumption that Charles would have ulterior motives about his mother. They did get on so well, before Charles and Erik separated and Charles decided things between him and Edie had become too awkward for them to meet up regularly.

He inhales, and then leans back against the sink. He’s getting too riled up, far too quickly. “I’m sorry, it was rude of me to snap like that.”

Erik shrugs. “It’s fine. She’s good. She’s taken up gardening as a part-time hobby; she’s not half bad at it.” He starts to smile a bit, a faraway look in his eyes, and Charles smiles back, pleased. That’s progress.

“And how is business with the MCIS?” Charles ventures.

“Oh, you know how it is. Work.” Erik shrugs awkwardly.

“I’m sure Emma values your contributions,” Charles says, searching Erik’s gaze, observing his reaction to the mention of her.

Erik tenses, frowning, and shifts on his feet. “I’m not here to talk about Emma,” he says, finally looking directly into Charles’s eyes. Charles is so pleased that they’re finally getting somewhere that he decides to forget being annoyed with Erik for avoiding the subject of Emma.

“Then why are you here? We both have a dance to get back to.” Charles steps forward.

Erik mistakes the motion for Charles trying to leave, and moves closer, in Charles’s way. Once he’s sure he has Charles’s attention, he licks his lips and speaks. “I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’ll just say it: I’m being blackmailed.”

Charles is so surprised that the few moments that follow Erik’s words pass in silence. “Do you know who’s doing this?” is what he says in the end.

Erik’s stance relaxes, assured of Charles’s attention. “No, I don’t. All I get is text messages, from a new unknown number every time, and whenever I try to trace them they just don’t work.”

Charles leans back against the counter. He’s honestly at a loss – of all the things he’d have expected Erik to say to him… Why would Erik come to him for help? He doesn’t think Erik would answer that question if it were put to him, though. “What do they ask you to do, exactly?”

Erik doesn’t glance furtively around or lower his voice or anything of the sort, but Charles can sense his suspicion in the air, and in the way that suddenly all the metal in the room seems to be at the ready, as on edge as Erik is inside. “Mostly to steal random files from the MCIS. Some from cases of petty theft, some worse. I deliver them to abandoned houses, usually.”

Charles raises his eyebrows. “Any murder cases? Or anything of the like?”

Erik shakes his head no. “Nothing, not yet at least.”

“I’m sorry, Erik, I don’t know how to help you. Why didn’t you go to Emma for help? She’s your boss after all, she’d be in a better position to – “

Erik cuts him off. “She can’t know anything about this, it would just make it worse,” he snaps, irritation clear in his voice.

“What do they have on you, exactly?”

Erik shakes his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you that. It’s too much.”

Charles feels frustrated. “Seriously, Erik, you came to me because you wanted my help, didn’t you? How am I supposed to try and help if you don’t tell me the full picture?”

Erik closes his eyes and breathes hard. “You think I wouldn’t go to you if I hadn’t tried everything I could think of already?”

“What, so I’m your last resort? I’m so terribly flattered.” Charles glares at Erik, and he doesn’t seem to have anything to say in response.

Charles is suddenly sick of this cautious back-and-forth, the way that whenever one of them takes a step forward, the other takes a step back. He wants nothing more than to get out.

“This has nothing to do with me anyway. Why can’t you solve your own problems, Erik? I have enough of my own to deal with!” He moves to get past Erik, but Erik’s hand shoots out and grabs Charles’s wrist, pulling Charles close. Charles flinches back instinctively and tugs his arm away furiously, but Erik’s grip on him is too tight. “Let me go,” Charles hisses, his anger blazing hot. _Don’t touch me_ , is what he doesn’t say; _you gave me up long ago_.

With them so close, the heat of Erik’s proximity is dizzying even through all the layers they’re wearing, and it’s hard to think; when Erik lets Charles go as if he’s been burnt, Charles steps away to find refuge in the distance between them. Erik tracks his movements with his gaze, lips pursed and his eyes hard, now, as if determined not to apologize.

Charles remembers the last time they’d talked to each other, _really_ talked.

* * *

 Beep. Beep. Beep _. The recurrent sounds pulse, becoming steadily louder and louder, until they almost seem like they’re in his head, reverberating painfully. Charles groans and peels his heavy eyelids open._

_There’s a sudden, loud gasp, and the harsh scraping of chair legs against the floor. Charles glances to the side and sees a redheaded girl staring back at him with wide eyes before rushing to the door, hauling it open and then dashing out of the room. “The professor’s awake!” he hears her exclaim._

_Charles raises his hands to his face carefully – noting the IV drip attached to the back of one hand – and rubs his eyes, which are bleary with sleep over an indeterminable number of days. The hospital gown he’s wearing rustles as he moves, and he cranes his head to look down at himself. With a start, he sees his left leg bound in a plaster cast and supported in a cloth suspended from the ceiling. He tries to sit up but is held back by straps below his armpits and across his torso. Something in his back twinges as he struggles a little against the bonds._

_There’s a concerned sound from the doorway. Charles looks up, stilling._

_“You shouldn’t be moving,” Erik says, walking to the bed and looking down at him with red-rimmed eyes with deep bags under them, as if he hadn’t been sleeping lately. “You just had spinal surgery.”_

_“You shouldn’t be here,” Charles says, numb. He doesn’t know how to react to Erik being here. He’d never expected Erik to so much as turn up to see him, much less be the first person he’d see when he had woken up._

_“_ _Don_ _’t be like that, Charles.” Erik crouches next to the bed, not bothering to drag over one of the chairs by the wall. “I never wanted this to happen to you.”_

_“You left me,” Charles challenged him._

_“I had to.”_ _Erik_ _’s expression twists. “I didn’t want to.”_

_Charles has to turn his face away from that. “How am I supposed to believe anything you say anymore?”_

_Erik reaches for his hand. Charles lets him take it, numbly, not returning Erik’s tight squeeze. The simple physical contact between them starts a deep, throbbing ache in his chest._

I loved you _, Charles wants to say_. More than anything, anything in the world, I still do. I would have do anything to keep you. _But he knows he’ll just sound pathetic if he says it, so he stays quiet._

_“I have obligations, as you do. It doesn’t mean we can’t still see each other. If you can’t accept that…” Erik lets his voice trail off, closing his eyes for a moment. “I will find the people who did this,” he promises, his tone darkening. “I will hunt them down, and they will pay.”_

_“I very much doubt the MCIS will be pleased to have one of their prized agents neglect his duties for some personal vendetta,”_ _Charles snaps._

_Erik seems to choose to ignore Charles’s tone; in one swift movement, he kneels down next to the bed. Erik looks up at him from his position on the ground, his hands set palm-up on his knees, set like an offering. Feeling torn by the sight, after a few quiet moments, Charles pushes closer to the edge of the bed, as close as his bonds allow, and reaches out shakily to touch his hand to Erik's face, curling his fingers to cup Erik's cheek, stubble rasping across his palm._

_Erik leans into the touch and closes his eyes. The sight of it starts a deep ache in his chest. Charles swallows back against the lump in his throat, tears prickling in his eyes._

_"Tell me what to do," Erik says, his voice almost pleading. "Tell me to stay, if you want me."_

_Charles almost flinches back at that. "I won’t, Erik. You know I won’t, don't put me in that position."_

_I won’t make you stay, Charles thought bitterly. I won’_ _t._ _But I wish I would. None of this would have happened._

 _That word, won’_ _t, can_ _’t, it sticks in his throat._

_The next morning, Erik is nowhere to be found. Raven and Alex scour the hospital grounds and send Erik dozens of texts which go unanswered. They argue about where he might be, Raven insisting that Erik would come back, he would, he would, he wouldn't just leave them, especially not Charles, not when he's like this, and Alex shutting her down with a scathing rebuttal. Hank says nothing the whole while, but his mind bristles with fury._

_Amongst all the chaos, Charles just closes his eyes and sinks into sleep._

I need you more than I can say. 

But I can't make you stay.  

* * *

Passing one last burning look over his shoulder, Charles makes to leave, striding to the door.

"Charles. Stop. Please.”

Erik sounds so desperate that Charles halts in his steps and grits his teeth. For a dangerous moment, he thinks about simply _making_ Erik stop talking, and walking away, leaving him here. But then he’s horrified at himself, and feels his shoulders hunch.

When did we become so broken?

“I need your help. Please.” 

Charles covers his face with his hands and rubs hard at his eyes, half-convinced this is all a dream.

Erik says it, again: “Please. Charles.”

He’s not sure what is it that convinces him, maybe the sheer misery in Erik’s voice or his own weakness, but he says it anyway: “All right.”

* * *

On tacit agreement, Charles exits the washroom first; Erik will come out a few minutes later.

Neither of them wants the curious stares and gossip that will ensue if they’re seen together. 

That particular dance of theirs is wretchedly familiar.

Charles walks briskly down the empty corridor. He can hear laughter and excited gaiety far off, and he glances at his watch. It’s only five minutes to midnight; everyone must be getting ready for the countdown to New Year’s Day.

When he reaches the entrance hall, he follows the sound of merriment outside and walks down the stairs to the courtyard. There’s a crowd gathering in the centre, and Charles can see Kitty and the other reporters setting up their cameras and equipment at the sides, chattering away happily.

Charles joins the back of the crowd, craning his neck to search for Hank and Jean – he finds them easily, and murmurs his apologies to the persons in front of him, who hasten to give him way, and then he can easily sidle up behind Hank and Jean.

“How’s it going?” he asks them, smiling.

“Oh, there you are, you’ve no idea how many people came up to me and Moira earlier asking after you to congratulate you on your speech,” Jean says, clutching a glass of wine in one of her hands, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. “And Moira and Emma are going to start the countdown soon, and I hear Pyro’s in charge of the fireworks this year. It’s going to be fantastic, I bet!”

“I haven’t seen Pyro in years,” Hank says, idly, looking relaxed, and this is the first time in ages Charles has seen him look truly at ease. “He hasn’t dropped by _Enigma_ either. Have you seen him lately, Charles?”

“Last I heard, he decided to join one of Raven’s mutant orphan entertainment slash circus projects,” Charles says. “He’s making good money out of it, Raven told me; he seems to enjoy it better than he ever enjoyed _Enigma_.” He shrugged.

“Oh, right,” Jean says. “He was part of your special effects team before I joined _Enigma_ , wasn’t he?”

Charles nods. “Yes, he was. He left because, well, I suppose he wanted to make a name for himself.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Charles sees Erik nudge his way into the centre of the crowd to join Pietro and Janos, balancing three glasses of drinks in his hands; Pietro grins as he takes his glass, and Janos inclines his head in thanks.

“The countdown’s going to start soon, I think,” Jean says, shifting on her feet restlessly, tugging her phone out of a pocket in her dress to glance at the time. No sooner than she says it, Moira shouts into the microphone: “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time! Fifteen… Fourteen…” The crowd starts to join her, and Charles punches the air above him with his fist to the beat of the countdown as he pitches in. Moira grins at him.

“Ten… nine…”

The crowd is a whirlwind of anticipation and an almost childish euphoria, all of them completely absorbed in the countdown; Charles lets himself get drunk on it, swaying with their motions, lets himself get carried away in the uniformity of thought around him. He can feel Jean’s awe at the experience too, parallel to his own.

“Eight… Seven… Six…”

Charles glances at Erik, his eyes pulled to Erik as if compelled by some invisible, inexplicable force. He finds Erik gazing back at him, Erik’s face painted with the red and yellow lights of the fireworks, masking most of his expression from Charles. Everyone else fades away, and there is only them, for that one fleeting, fragile moment. Charles sinks into it, absorbs it, commits every line on Erik’s face and his intense stare to memory, as best as he can; saves it for the times he’ll feel irreparably alone, fractured, like some part of him is missing and is gone for forever.

“Two… ONE!”

There’s a bang, and the black sky is illuminated with a spectrum of bright coloured lights, with vivid, psychedelic cartwheels and dragons tumbling over their heads. Pyro throws up his hands, and streaks of fire blaze in the sky; the dragons roar, twisting around each other in intricate patterns. Moira and Emma start up a cheer, clasping their hands and punching their fists together into the air. Jean laughs delightedly and turns to hug Hank and himself. Hank looks so startled, both Charles and Jean burst into laughter; Charles hugs them both back, grinning, shaking his head, exchanging an amused look with Jean.

When he turns his head, he can’t find Erik in the crowd.


End file.
